


might as well be grand and shoot my arrow

by tremontaine



Series: holy city [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dirty Talk, Femsub, Multi, OT3, PWP, Porn with Feelings, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 04:25:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2931794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tremontaine/pseuds/tremontaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So it had taken two days longer than she’d said it would; she had texted them and said she’d be late and that was that. She was not the – the stray fucking cat, or something. She did not belong to either of them.</p><p>Except when she wanted to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	might as well be grand and shoot my arrow

When missions went wrong, Natasha Romanov got snappish. Few people – if any – were aware of this, because she didn’t show it, but it was there just the same, an itch under her skin whenever the intel turned out to be so much fairy stories or things blew up that shouldn’t have.

These days she did at least have the consolation of not being made to sit through Nick stalking about his oversized office with his coat flapping around his knees like a TV vampire’s while he muttered and cursed over the post-mission reports and tried to work out what had gone wrong. (In Natasha’s uncharitable opinion, what usually went wrong at times like this was that some idiot in the food chain between the risk assessment analysts and her own sweet self had not done their damn job properly.) Instead he was slumped on Clint’s couch poking at the vid on his laptop and cursing, and Natasha had got away scot-free and was in the cab on her way home.

 _Home_.

The word scuttled across her conscious mind and froze up in horror when it realised she had noticed it; then, shamefacedly, it started to edge back out again. Sorry, it seemed to say, sorry, Agent Romanov, I didn’t mean to presume…

She fell back against the seat and bit her tongue on a groan. Her right hand was clenched around her cell phone; five hours ago James had texted her, _hope all ok_ , and six times now she had started to type back, _yes mom don’t expect hourly selfies_ and had stopped and deleted it before she pressed send. So it had taken two days longer than she’d said it would; she had texted them and said she’d be late and that was that. She was not the fucking – the stray fucking cat, or something. She did not belong to either of them.

Except when she wanted to. Memory stirred: _my beautiful girl, you thought a few wipes and a decade would make a difference, mine, mine_. Fuck. Fuck him for doing this to her, and fuck her own fucked up mind that had made her ask for it, and fuck her body for tightening up at the very thought.

She paid the cabbie on autopilot, tipped him extravagantly, jumped up the steps and unlocked the door. No kind of home, Agent Romanov, oh no, not at all. Her grey coat was on the coatstand and her running shoes were on the floor and her scarf was draped over the end of the bannister, and she was still standing in front of the fucking front door: her books were scattered across the living room and her clothes were in the closet upstairs... Suddenly all the anger went out of her in a rush, leaving her hollowed out. She shook her head at herself, smiling ruefully. Shoes, take her shoes off, her jacket, maybe eat? She wasn’t hungry. Maybe go to bed? She wasn’t really tired. Oh why was coming home so complicated. Then she heard James laugh, low and warm.

“Guys?” She toed her shoes off, padded down the hall.

“Living room,” James called, and when she turned right there he was, sprawled in the armchair with a book in his left hand, cupping his cock through his jeans with his right and smiling, eyes hot with intent.

Natasha said dryly, “Subtle,” but she knew by the way his eyes flicked past her that Steve was to her right.

“Your timing,” said James, grinning at her, and Steve’s big hands skimmed her hips from behind, she had the smell of his cologne and his charcoal pencils in her nostrils, his body heat at her back. He kissed her temple, a quick chaste hello.

“I was just offering to suck his cock,” he said by her ear. “Then we heard the cab pull up.”

Natasha looked down at herself, at her three-day-old jeans bagging at the knees and her green socks and the hands at her hips; then she looked at James, who dropped the book and slumped in the armchair, spreading his legs with cheerful obscenity – even hooked his right one over the arm of the chair – his hair stuck up where he’d been resting his head on the back of the chair and his smile managed, somehow, to be both welcoming and lascivious. Memory, again: kneeling between those ridiculous thighs and sucking him off slow and leisurely while he held her head in his hands and told her over and over just how good she was to him, how good she made him feel; counted all the ways in which she belonged to him.

“Get in line,” she said to Steve, and put her hands over his; he laughed and stepped up close, body pressed to hers. She could feel his cock through their clothes, what had they been up to, probably teasing each other all day. The curtains were closed.

“You wanna?” Teasing, encouraging.

Natasha knew exactly what she wanted. She drew a deep breath and looked at James’ face. “I want what you’ll tell me to want. Both of you.” Awkwardly phrased. Silence. Steve had gone still in surprise; she had asked it of James, what, three times now? Three times in nearly six months. But not, before, of Steve. “If you’re OK with that.”

James sat forwards. He’d got his fly open, the buttons, and she could see the shape of his cock pressing against the black cotton underneath; had her request done that, got him all the way hard? “You’re OK?”

Natasha licked her lips. “Yes,” she said. “I mean I’ve had a very frustrating week.” She grinned sharply. “But I’m OK. Steve – say something.”

He kissed her temple again: press of lips longer this time, and then his mouth brushed the corner of her eye, her cheekbone.

“Yeah, I – yeah. I’ll do it.”

She smiled.

“Strip, then,” said James, voice gone deep, and he sat back in the armchair and smiled again: now it had a faintly predatory cast, all anticipation. Natasha felt Steve shudder; then he pushed her hands down, away from her jacket, the buttons of her shirt.

“Think I’ll handle that.” He was tight up against her from shoulders to ass but his fingers barely brushed her as he undid button after button. Natasha let her hands fall to her sides, flexed them, stood still, looked at James. Eyes on his face. He was watching Steve’s hands, Steve who had to step back from her to ease both the shirt and her jacket off her shoulders, let it fall. The bra was black and unadorned and went next, her nipples tightening, goosebumps on her bared skin.

James swung his leg off the arm of the chair and stood up, all grace and swagger. Natasha gasped a little when he came towards her, felt Steve’s fingers at the button of her jeans pause for a second, then carry on. His fingers were cool… they peeled the fly of her jeans back, pushed the fabric down a ways, then slid between her legs. Natasha shuddered, moaned when James went to his knees in front of her and put his mouth on her tits, oh, oh.

“Buck, her pants.” Worked them down slowly, inch by inch, he lifted her legs one after the other so he could get them over her ankles, pull her socks off. Steve was rubbing at her through her panties, slow and gentle. “How long have you been thinking about this?”

“I – I don’t –“

“All day? All week?”

“Since the cab ride,” Natasha flashed. Every pull of James’ mouth on her tits was going straight to her cunt, and she was swaying already.

“Oh, there goes my ego.” He laughed. “Put your hands in his hair if you want to.”

She waved them, helpless, not so far gone that she didn’t feel a note of fond exasperation. I don’t want; you tell. But Steve understood. “Sorry. Put your hands in his hair.”

She did. Thick and slightly greasy, she tangled her fingers in it and held on to him as he teased her. Her hips were moving in familiar circles against Steve’s hand. Then he took it away, nudged at James, who gave her nipple a last warm lick and looked up, mouth wet and shiny.

“Hmm? I’m busy here, Steve.”

“You’re very easily distracted,” Steve said. “Tasha’s been gone all week, I think she could use a shower, yeah? A drink of something? Some food?” He stroked up her body from her mons to her throat, hand resting there, still, heavy, trapping her. James’ eyes widened.

“Uh, our girl is not the only one whom that would torture,” he said, but he was smiling, wide and crooked and wicked. Natasha’s hands were still in his hair, and he turned his head and kissed the inside of her wrist.

“Nah,” said Steve. “I’ll suck you off while she’s busy.”

James eyes slid from Steve’s face to Natasha’s. “Here’s the thing, though,” he said. “You don’t get to touch yourself no matter what you’re picturing.”

“Picturing,” said Steve. “Was gonna lay you down on the bathroom floor and get you off right in front of her.”

Natasha had to close her eyes against that mental image. Except, being a mental image, this didn’t actually help. James was laughing softly, delighted. She pried her lips open and said, “I’ve eaten.”

“Glass of juice and a hot shower,” said James. “Wash your hair too. Then come through to the bedroom.”

“You close the blinds in the kitchen?”

“No. Wait a sec.” He stood up; her hands fell out of his hair, and then he tilted her face up by the chin and kissed her for the first time in nearly two weeks, deep and possessive. Natasha moaned, arched into him, suspected she would fall over if Steve weren’t holding her up, watched James go with a little possessiveness of her own. That was hers, all that strength and beauty, hers and Steve’s.

Steve said, “There anything you need me to know?” His voice was soft and curious, his arms tight around her. Natasha rubbed against him a little, the cotton of his t-shirt, the rougher denim at her ass and the small of her back, the cold of his belt buckle. Was there anything she needed him to know? How much she needed him, how much she wanted him, how eager she was for him to bend her over the couch two steps to their right and fuck her right there and then, without even waiting for James.

“Don’t call me anything – you know –“

“Unpleasant.”

She nodded. But that had always been a limit, just like Steve’s own abiding hatred for being tied down. (That had been a surprise. He could and did take being ordered to stay still or keep his hands in a certain position very, very well, but actual bonds had been a step too far that not even he had suspected.) “Uh, no weird titles and no punishments.” Steve rumbled assent, a murmur in his chest that, she thought, held an undercurrent of amusement. Natasha grinned. Steve _liked_ being punished, liked open-ended instructions, leeway to push. Then she added, “There’s gonna be a point where I’m not gonna talk unless you tell me to.” She wasn’t nearly as talkative as her boys, but James had said once that when she went silent it was doubly hard to tell if she was all right, so it seemed like a thing Steve should probably know.

Steve sighed a little. “All right. Thank you,” he said softly, “for trusting me with this.” With yourself.

“Turnabout,” she said, “is fair play,” and grinned when he shuddered: Steve on his knees for her and James was a sight to behold. Ridden hard and put away wet tended to be the least of it. She was still facing the armchair, the bookshelf behind it, and he had not yet kissed her.

“Tell you what,” he said softly. “We’ll both do it for Buck sometime.”

Oh, oh, that was an idea. Natasha drew a long deep breath. Steve laughed. “Yeah. Imagine this just now, that way: strip her, he’d say, and watch me get you naked, put you all on display for him, put us both on display. You know, I think he’d make me get you off, just stand here and rub you through your panties till you come for him.” Natasha had been a little amazed and a lot delighted to discover that Steve had a frankly filthy imagination and a mouth to match, and right now – as he caught her hips and turned her in his arms to kiss her – she had the distant, sinking feeling that she might just be about to get a demonstration of same that would outstrip every previous performance on this theme ever.

It was delicious. She arched into him the way she’d arched against James, kissed him back, moaned when he sucked on her tongue, nipped gently at her lips. His arms at her back were solid as steel, holding her close, and already – what, less than ten minutes in? – it had started, the world going nebulous at all its edges. She would drink, she would shower, she would dry herself, she would be taken to bed and be made to remember who she belonged to.

From the doorway, James said, “Aren’t you beautiful.”

Steve smiled against Natasha’s mouth. “Been watching long?”

“Long enough.” His metal fingers tapped against the glass of juice he held out to Natasha.

“Thank you.” She smirked at him over the rim, leaning against Steve as she drank, naked except for her damp panties. Suddenly she said, “I didn’t even ask – everything’s been –“

James put his fingers on her lips. “Would we have been in here winding each other up like a couple of horny teenagers if it weren’t OK?”

No of course not. She shook her head, irritated at herself – both her selfishness and her belated, unwarranted concern.

“Natalya-my-Natalya, you don’t get to worry right now, remember?” He was smiling, kissed her.

“Tasha,” Steve said. “You still thirsty? Finish that. Go shower – take a long time - relax – then come to bed.” He kissed her ear, her cheek.

“Come to us,” James murmured. “Hmm? Go on.” He took the empty glass out of her hands again and kissed the taste of orange juice out of her mouth; then Steve stepped away from her. Natasha stepped, a little unsteady, round the piles of her abandoned clothes and walked back out of the living room, up the stairs. They were watching her. This was new: being told to do something that wasn’t directly sexual. She and James had kept it inside the bedroom. Steve had too. At the top of the stairs she wrapped her hand around the heavy wooden knob on the end of the bannister and swung herself round to face the bathroom, a little flamboyant, beyond their gazes. The landing floor was smooth and cool under her bare feet.

She was smiling, she saw in the mirror over the sink, the self-satisfied smile of the proverbial cat.

The shower running couldn’t quite hide the sound of them coming up the stairs; this was an old house and things tended to creak. It didn’t hide Steve’s laugh, either, always louder than James’ – or her own – but after that she couldn’t hear anything else, left to imagine them straightening up the bedroom, shaking the duvet out and folding it aside, stripping off, getting the lube out, closing the curtains, opening a window for the breeze. Maybe they would fuck and make her watch without letting her come. Maybe she’d sit on Steve’s cock and be coaxed through an orgasm and stretched till she was relaxed enough to take James as well. Maybe James would –

Well this wasn’t helping. She slammed the door on all speculation till she was out of the shower: she’d been told to relax, not to get herself worked up even more. Think about… about wet, uncomfortable subway rides and coaxing information out of irritating, ignorant businessmen. She’d sat through that wine-soaked mass luncheon imagining in gory detail the bloody havoc she could wreak with the knives strapped to her thigh…

She wasn’t meant to be getting irritated all over again, either. Natasha shampooed her hair and sighed. Kittens and sunshine and cuddling, then.

She didn’t even like cats.

Much.

The shower was on full, pounding as hot as she could stand on her shoulders and back, going a long way to undoing the knots in her muscles. When she stepped out she wrapped her hair in a towel and fell, without thinking, into the usual routine: deodorant, lotion, clean her teeth – underwear – oh. Right.

The hair dryer was in the bedroom. She swallowed hard, towelled her hair off fiercely, dragged a comb through it and let it hang. It was short enough that it would bounce into natural curls when it dried, a little, and if she needed to go out again she could attack it with the tongs.

Now she was just putting it off.

Natasha looked at herself in the mirror again. Skin pink with heat and being rubbed at, shiny and clean, eyes a little bruised, she hadn’t slept too much this week. Never mind. She was about to be thoroughly worn out… The proverbial cat came back and her breath came quick.

“You lucky girl,” she said to her reflection happily. _Come to bed. Come to us_. When she opened the bathroom door her fingers on the handle trembled a little. Now she could hear them, someone was moaning, was it James?

Yes. Steve was making good on that promise… they _had_ tidied up the bedroom, the curtains were closed and the window was tilted open, her clothes were in the laundry hamper, and James was naked on his back in the middle of the bed, rocking his hips up into Steve’s mouth – Steve who was still dressed. Natasha stopped in the doorway, staring: James’s flushed face, the hopeless mess of his hair, his clenched fist by his hip, the stuttering movements of his hips, the way those strong thighs bracketed Steve’s shoulders.

Then he turned his head and saw her, and his eyes grew sharp past the haze of pleasure. “Told you to come to bed.”

She caught the door and pushed it shut behind her, walked naked across the room; she’d just walked naked down the hall and not been bothered by it but _this_. James was watching her avidly, and Steve hadn’t seemed to notice she was there.

Her knees were on the bed. James held out a hand to her; she went to him, lay down beside him, and he sank his hand into her damp hair and kissed her deeply; when he cried out it was a vibration against her tongue, a gust of his breath – his body stiffened and relaxed, and he sighed into her mouth, gasping a little with the aftershocks.

Then Steve’s hands were on her own body, thigh and hip, he pulled her away from James and turned her on her back with a single sharp movement. Natasha groaned aloud, hands flying out, catching on James’ hip, dropping to the sheet.

Steve laughed. “Buck said you’d like it.”

“Did he?” She was staring up at the ceiling, smiling like a fool. “What else did he say I’d like?”

“Being held down,” said Steve. Why, all of a sudden, was he not touching her? She tried to raise her head off the mattress but James pressed his fingers against her mouth gently, pushed her back. His fingertips traced her lips; she parted them for him, sucked on his fingers, rubbing her tongue against the too-smooth skin and the scars where his fingerprints had been burnt off. “Being told who you belong to.” His hands on her thighs again, a knee pushing between hers, skin on skin. James said, “Who you belong to, by the way, is us.” Natasha moaned around his fingers. “Yes. You know it. Beauty. Open your legs for Steve, yeah?” His other hand was at her knee as she spread her legs, holding her open.

Steve said, “Being fucked,” and pushed inside her.

Natasha cried out, muffled by James‘ fingers, and her back arched helplessly. God, god, he was so big, and she hadn’t expected that, not a little, had expected to be teased past desperation before either of them fucked her, when he drew back she moaned in protest, but he wasn’t going anywhere was he, oh no. She laughed in delight. James drew his fingers out of her mouth and pinched her nipples gently. Her hips were off the bed, held tight in Steve’s hands, and every thrust was pushing her up the mattress, filling her up so good, driving the last week and the mission and all the world out of her mind, everything but them.

“Feel good?” said James. “Answer me, beauty.” He was kissing her face gently, her nose, her forehead, her closed eyelids.

“Yes,” she said thickly. “Nothing’s better.”

“No it isn’t,” he agreed, and Steve laughed shortly. “Time he’s done with you, I _think_ I can get it up again.” He kissed the corner of her mouth, teasing. She could feel him against her hip, already halfway there. If the serum was a curse it had one compensation, at least. “Take my time with you then.”

“Wanna see that,” said Steve.

“You will. Won’t he? Show him just how sweet you always are for me. Well, you kind of already are. Look at you. Thought about getting you to sit on my face, get you all worked up, but what _were_ you thinking about in that shower? Hmm?”

“This,” she said. “Ah, oh, god. This, you, being with you, what you’d want.” Steve changed his grip on her hips, changed the angle of his thrusts; she was close to sobbing, he was being so slow, it was torture.

“ _Exactly_ this?”

“You are being absolutely cruel,” said Steve, breathless.

“I like hearing her talk,” said James. “And she knows it.”

“I do,” said Natasha. “I do, it – I do, I wondered what you’d want, what you’d do, I thought maybe both of you at once,” and that earned her groans, a deep snap of Steve’s hips, a fierce and thorough kiss from James.

“Eager,” said Steve harshly.

“Told you that, too,” said James. “Eager and inventive and knows exactly what she wants. Except, of course, that before much longer you’re gonna be so far gone you don’t know a damn thing about what you want, won’t you, sweetheart. You know she blacked out the first time we did this?”

Steve started laughing. “Better put my back into it.”

“I knew it,” said Natasha, caught between a laugh and a cry of delight when Steve tipped forwards, covering her, mouthed at her breasts, James’ hand under her head. “I knew you’d never let that go –“

Smug, James said, “Not for a second. Talk to her, Steve, she loves that, gets her wet, makes her go all sweet and biddable.” It was making her wet and sweet and biddable that they were talking about her like this, over the top of her head, that she didn’t get a say, wasn’t being asked but told, wasn’t even being told directly.

“Sweet and biddable,” Steve scoffed. He kissed her mouth; their noses bumped; every thrust in was making her shake, twisting her higher and higher. “Our Nat, sweet and biddable.”

“Docile,” said James. “Tractable. Compliant. Willing.”

Willing, all right. “Obedient,” Natasha said richly. “Useable.”

Shuddering, Steve said, “Mouthy,” with a twist of his hips that made her cry out.

“He likes me mouthy.”

“So do I.” That, for some reason, made her moan. “But I like you pretty much every way imaginable.”

Natasha squeezed her eyes shut. Steve said gently, “Wrong thing to say?”

“Try an _I love you_ and see how she takes it.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Natasha said, and both of them started laughing. Fine, all right, she’d said more obedient things, whatever. Steve kissed her, his thrusts speeding up, and said, “I love you,” by her ear, “I love you, my Nat, you’re being so good to me, just like Bucky said, so, so good, love how you move underneath me, how tight you are, how” – he grinned against her cheek – “willing.” He was propped on his elbows, pushed his arms underneath her to grip her shoulders so every thrust rocked her nowhere but into his own hands, she was surrounded, pinned, desperate, floating, his.

“Scratch him up,” James said suddenly. “He loves that.”

“Yes, god,” said Steve. “Stayed still so sweet, love, let me do whatever I wanted, now scratch me up, put your legs round my waist.” She couldn’t move her damn legs. Her hands were shaking: flat on his shoulder blades, then digging in on the next thrust, he knew how to _make_ her scratch him up, knew how hard and fast and what perfect angle got her going, he cried out as she dragged her nails down his back, funny, she hadn’t thought of that, of being ordered to do something for him that under other circumstances she would order him to take. It wasn’t what they did, it was who decided… and right now she wasn’t deciding a damn thing. Steve had her, everything there was of her, she was entirely and perfectly indifferent to the rest of the damn universe, with one sole exception:

“You can come, Natalya,” said James, and eeled his hand between their bodies to find her clit. “You can come.”

So she did, and dragged Steve over with her.

His ragged breathing was loud in her ears, their sweaty skin sticking together, his weight on her just the right side of too heavy. Her eyes were closed. James was combing her wet hair away from her forehead, lowered her legs to the mattress.

“Steve, roll over,” he said. “Take her with you.” The movement jolted Steve inside her, made her moan, tighten up. He had barely gone soft. James stroking his hands over her back, her hips, putting her legs where he wanted them, knees to either side of Steve’s waist. Steve’s hands were on her back as well, heavy and hot. His scratches would be healing up already. At most there would be a few drops of blood on the sheet. Her face was hidden in Steve’s chest, her breathing slowing. James was cupping her ass, spread it a little, his cock rubbed between the cheeks. She muttered, shifted back towards him, sighed in delight when even that little movement moved Steve’s cock against her.

“Think you could take it?” James said, close to a growl. “My cock in your ass while Steve’s still inside you? Think you could lie here still like you were still for Steve just now while I open you up?” He hummed thoughtfully, trying for clinical detachment that wasn’t really working, and then laughed softly. “Maybe not today. One thing at a time.” He moved his hand; she thought, from the way Steve shuddered, that James was stroking his cock, or as much of it as he could reach, a finger traced her vagina, the stretched skin around Steve’s cock, then they were lifting her up and off of him, legs spread obscenely, she could feel Steve’s come dripping out of her, and James pressed her down onto Steve’s chest with his metal hand and pushed inside her.

She couldn’t make a single fucking noise. All the breath was shocked out of her and gone. Her hands tore at the sheet by Steve’s shoulders, the blood was beating hotly in her cheeks, eyes wide and unseeing: the hollow of Steve’s throat, the dark sheet behind his shoulder. She was trapped, helpless, by their hands, by James’ body weight.

“Natalya,” said James, wrecked. “Yes, god.”

“Look at you, you’re shaking,” said Steve. “You really do love it when we trade you off, don’t you, I call that selfish, wanting everybody’s attention on you.”

“She’s got it now,” said James, and found a rhythm that made Natasha writhe, her skin sliding against Steve’s, making him moan in concert with her. “Got everybody’s whole-hearted attention. Listen, beauty, when I’ve messed you up, will you take Steve again? Tell me. Answer me. Come on up.” He pulled her up on her knees, straddling Steve’s waist, James knew how much she loved this, held her pinned tight to his chest and fucked her relentlessly. “Look at Steve – pretty sure it’s not polite to stare at a lady’s tits like that, Steven Grant – look at Steve and answer me.”

She was a mess already, come on her thighs and sweat everywhere else, hands by her sides jumping with every delicious thrust, he hadn’t told her what to do with them, but she looked at Steve, at his bitten red mouth and his lust-clouded blue eyes and his sex-mussed hair and his pretty, flushed, heaving chest, and said, “ _He’ll_ take _me_ , I’ll take what he wants, what you tell me to take,” and cried out when Steve surged up and kissed her. The rhythm broke as they shuffled her about so Steve could kneel in front of her, she nearly cried, clenching down on James, and when he started again Steve got his mouth on her tits, rubbed at her clit with two fingers, merest tease.

“Come on,” he said, gripping her hips, and James laughed.

“Greedy.”

“Hey, we’re even up, actually.”

“So we are.” James’ hands cupped her breasts, rubbed his palms over her nipples. “Still greedy. Barely been in her ten seconds.”

“Fifteen,” said Steve. He cupped Natasha’s face in his hands and kissed her, and she moaned wordless into his mouth, her head falling back to James’ shoulder. “You’re just so good, Nat, perfect, sweet as sugar, and so pretty when you’re being fucked, too, just about drunk on it.” Drunk, yes, she was completely drunk on it, floating, floating, so full, so helpless. “Not doin’ a single thing you’ve not been told to do, stay in this bed and take it, take us, over and over. Oh I know, I know how good it is to be the centre of attention, I don’t blame you a bit, love, not a bit.” He kissed her again. “Especially _his_ attention.” Again. “Like you’re the most precious thing in the universe, and every atom in your body belongs to him.”

“You are and it does,” said James harshly. “Don’t fucking forget it, either of you, every fucking thing you are is mine. Natalya –“

“Yes,” she said blankly, mind wiped clean of every thought but that, “yes, yours, always was, Steve’s, luckier than I deserve, could’ve killed myself –” broke into a moan when Steve cupped her tits in his hands, kissed James over her shoulder, deep and dirty, pressing her tight between their chests.

Then: “Killed yourself when?”

More of a sob than a laugh. “When I knew I was in love with both of you. What kind of an idiot falls for two men in her life and then has them turn out to be best friends?” It brought her back from the edge of coming to remember that night, the mess of bitter self-mockery: to have begun, hesitantly, to trust Steve at last, and then have her lost Soldier shoot her on a DC highway and turn out to be Steve’s closest friend…

James kissed the hinge of her jaw, her earlobe; his pace had slowed, deep and dirty but lasciviously gentle. “I love you, my Natalya.”

And Steve, kissing her again: “Tasha… I love you. You saved us, you know… you saved us, and we’re keeping you.”

She laughed, broken, moaning, filled up with both of them, James’ cock inside her slicked with Steve’s come, soon be his own, messing her up, marking her. Steve sat back on the bed, legs sprawled to either side of her knees; then she was being traded off again, begging, incoherent, as they manhandled her into Steve’s lap, put her arms around his neck, they couldn’t just let her sit on Steve’s cock and be fucked, could they, oh no, it took forever, two pairs of hands gripping her hips, slow and easy and gentle like this was her first damn time instead of the second time tonight she’d had Steve in her.

Natasha’s first time had been in the dark, desperate and quick, her Soldier’s voice in her ear, _they’ll wipe you_ , broken, wanting. _I want you_ , she’d said, _I – I think I love you_. And later, when he’d been inside her, she had kissed his face and found it wet with tears, just like her own. _Natalya_ , he had said, as if her name was a gift she had given him instead of a fact recorded in her personnel files.

“Natalya,” her Soldier said behind her, his sweat-slick chest against her back, and Steve said, “Tasha, love. Open your eyes.”

Natasha opened her eyes. The world had gone away: there wasn’t anything left of it but the two men holding her. “I love you,” she said, lost, shattered, held tight between them, clenching around Steve’s cock. “I love you and I’m yours and this, this right here, between you, being fucked by you, this is where I belong, stay here forever, keep you in me, want you always, had no idea – no idea this would be so good.” She laughed a little. “Was gonna walk away, you know, when I saw you together, thought I’d be all noble and self-sacrificing. You’re a good person now, Natasha, you’ve got no right to be selfish.”

“Did you think we were doin’ this as some kind of favour?” Steve said, strained. He was trembling wildly underneath her, desperate, his fingers pinched around the base of his cock as best he could. “I’d have come find you no matter where you went.” She had to look away from his face. “You’re _mine_.”

And James kissed her shoulder, tilted her head to make her watch his metal fingers circling the Odessa scar, a brand, a promise. “All it would’ve taken was a headshot.”

“Avoiding collateral damage,” she said.

“Bullshit.” Now she was crying. When she came down again she’d probably be embarrassed. “Come on. Fuck yourself on Steve’s cock, love, go on. Ride him – make him come.” The sudden snap back to the real subject at hand – i.e., sex – made her gasp, the order made her float, the hands on her body helped her lift up and guided her back down again, her hips rocking, she knew what Steve liked, knew exactly, he was moaning, voice rich with desperation, and nothing in the world felt as good as doing this for him, for James. She clenched herself around him and rolled her hips in figure-eights and held his head against her shoulder and pinched his nipples because he loved that, it make him shake and groan and go all sweet and pliant. Usually.

“No,” Steve said, “not yet, not done yet.”

“See, that self-control is not healthy,” said James, but he forced Natasha still against Steve’s chest and kissed and kissed and kissed him while she twitched and moaned and did her level desperate best to be as still as he wanted her. “Beauty, look at you, don’t even have to tell you what I want, my girl, my perfect beautiful girl.” The words were muttered harsh against Steve’s mouth; all three of them were shaking.

“ _Our_ perfect girl,” Steve said, sounding near delirious. “On your back, sweetheart, I’m gonna hold you down while he fucks you, that make you happy? Of course it will. S’what you want, isn’t it. Held down, held open, fucked till you think you can’t take it and then, love, then be shown you’re wrong. You can take any damn thing we give you, can’t you.” She could, she could do anything they wanted her to, anything.

“If you want an answer you gotta tell her,” James said; he had pulled her back against his chest and had his hands on her tits again and Steve was still inside her and she was close to crying, close to begging, cried out helplessly when Steve put his mouth on her breasts, presented to him by James’ strong fingers, suckled and licked and bit the right one gently. Her eyes were closed, her hands were balled into fists and pressed against Steve’s chest. “You gotta tell her, she’s too far gone, aren’t you beauty, sweet and wet and biddable. What were those other words?”

Steve laughed against her breast. “Compliant,” he said, punctuating the list with licks of her nipples, “tractable, willing, and – useable.” God yes. Yes. Fingers on her clit, god alone knew whose. “That last one was her word and not ours.”

“I remember,” said James, and Steve slid out of her as they manhandled her up between them and James said, “From now on you come when you need to,” and Natasha shattered at the next cunning touch of those fingers, fell apart writhing in their hands, between their bodies, felt, as if from a very great distance, as if a memory of a sense, the sheet against her back, Steve’s hand on her wrists pinning them above her head, James pushing inside her again, relentless as before, drawing the orgasm out, pushing her so far it bordered on pain. She was crying, she could feel Steve kissing the tears off her cheeks.

“Take it beautifully, doing so well, Bucky’s gonna come inside you in another minute and I am gonna lick it up, eat you all out and then mess you up all over again. You think you can take that, sweetheart?” Fingertips gentle on her eyelids, her cheekbones. “Open up your eyes and answer me. Answer me.” Her eyelids were heavy as stones, her throat dry, her mouth hanging open, every square inch of her skin was on fire, all the breath she had was going towards the little cries James was forcing out of her, every push in a homecoming, every drag out a loss.

“I don’t – don’t know.” It felt shameful to admit, when everything they were doing to her was so precisely and perfectly what she wanted; it was like backing out. But Steve only laughed and kissed her, his tongue rubbing against hers, against the roof of her mouth, wet and strong.

“Then I’ll eat you out and mess him up, and you can watch.” James was laughing, a stuttered desperate sound.

“Don’t know if I could take that either.” Natasha arched her body off the mattress at a thrust that just about made her see stars, gasped to feel Steve’s hand pinning her wrists, pushed against it and moaned when he pressed back, immovable. James said, “What you do to me, I swear to god and Christ and all the fucking saints, never known anything – anything as good as this,” and Steve yanked him forwards with his free hand, bringing him down onto his elbows, onto Natasha, pinned twice over and moaning for more.

“Fill her up then, come inside her, wanna see, wanna get between her legs and see your come dripping out of her.” James groaned, face twisted up in an agony of ecstasy; another minute, and his hips finally lost that smooth relentless rhythm, bucking into her mindlessly. Natasha gasped to feel him come inside her, twisting up against him over and over, already wound up again so tight she was sure she couldn’t stand it.

Seconds ticked past; James was shuddering above her, his face in her shoulder, and Steve still held her wrists pinned. She was stretched taught as a tightrope, a guitar string, a garrotte.

“You’ll keep your hands there for me, won’t you?” he said.

Muffled, James said, “Greedy,” again, fond and loving.

“I think I get a little leeway,” said Steve, “the first time she gives me this.” He got all the leeway in the world, but if he didn’t put his mouth on her soon – but that wasn’t up to her, wasn’t her choice, wasn’t her place to tell or decide or even ask, and the knowledge made her shake, made her mindless, made her float.

James pushed himself up on his elbows, kissed Natasha’s wet flushed face. “I suppose,” he said. “Though I think you’re drunk on it, personally.”

“Wasted,” Steve said immediately. “Can you blame me? Look at her. Look how beautiful she is, how sweet she spreads her legs for us, how hot and tight and wet she is. For us.”

“Your mouth oughta be goddamn illegal,” James informed him and rolled off her. Steve laughed in delight; Natasha moaned again and lay still, hips twitching, frankly basking in their attention, their sex-rough voices wrapping round her. She was floating, her conscious mind somewhere near the ceiling, tethered to her body by their touch, their words. “Pretty sure it is, in fact, illegal in at least forty-eight outta fifty states. Here, bring her here, wanna hold her while you go to town.” Half-sitting, propped against the pillows. Steve lifted her easily and dropped her on James’ chest, flushed face bright with mischief. Natasha loved that look. He pushed his hand between her thighs, ran his fingers over her cunt; licked them clean. Natasha made a noise she didn’t recognise as human. James said, “Put your arms up, behind my head, think you can do that? Yeah. There. Now. You heard the man. He likes to watch you spread your legs for him.” Could she come from just hearing them talk? She was breathing hard, eyes fluttering closed, all her concentration taken up with keeping still for them.

“Too subtle,” said Steve wickedly. “Natasha, spread your legs for me. Gonna wreck you, love, come on.”

“I think,” said James, as Natasha spread her legs, “she just likes hearing you say it.”

Steve preferred to bury his face in her cunt than give their love an answer. Natasha had no idea how she kept her arms above her head, above James’; her whole body twisted, and a cry came out of her throat; James locked his arms around her and poured pure poetry into her ear: she was made for this, for sex, for pleasure, made for them, exclusively, only, they had waited for her seventy years and only see how perfect she was, how good to them, beyond any imagining…

She lost the sound of his voice in her orgasm, lost the touch of his arms, his chest against her back, his still-wet cock soft by her hip; lost everything but Steve’s clever mouth, his hands that steadied her, his shoulders that held her legs apart. Painstaking instruction and passionate practice had wrought this total ecstasy…

… _she_ was good to _them_? This was going above and beyond and then some…

Steve’s voice again, very near, the cadence of it changed, clearer. “To enter in these bonds is to be free; then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.”

Natasha blinked her eyes open. “John Donne.” Just as every time before, the world had come back into sudden focus, brighter, clearer, and she was light-headed with joy and exhaustion.

Steve kissed her, smiling. His kiss-swollen mouth was wet and sticky: with her come, with James’, with his own. Had he come? He had, all over himself. How many hours had vanished while they had lain here and played at owning each other?

“Are you OK?” he said softly.

“Yes,” she said, rubbing, cat-contented, against James’ body. “Oh yes. Thank you, love.”

He took her hand down from above her head and kissed it.

+++

There was a steaming hot bath, the water lapping over the edge of the tub whenever one of them moved too quick; there was cold juice and sandwiches, ham and cheese and cold roast beef, that she ate naked in the window seat of the bedroom. James licked butter off her fingers, and Steve changed the soiled sheet, and then they went to bed, where Natasha, happy to take full and shameless advantage of the situation, made sure she was in the middle.

“Why John Donne?” she asked suddenly, when they had lain in silence for a few minutes.

“Oh.” Steve smiled. “I think of those lines every time I ask you for it. To enter in these bonds is to be free…”

Yes – that floating feeling, that freedom of an empty mind, given over in the knowledge that you would get it safely back. That was exactly how it felt. Natasha smiled too.

“Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee,” James said, and gave a demonstration, his hands roaming lightly over still-sensitive skin.

Natasha shivered. “My Mine of precious stones, my Empirie; how blest am I in this discovering thee.”

There was a short, soft silence, broken by James’ warm, wondering voice. “The things that come out of your mouth when it’s both of us.”

“Oh, don’t.” She yawned. “Sex confessions don’t count.” She didn’t mean it and they knew she didn’t. In her case sex confessions might be the only ones that really counted; there was more than one way to be naked.

Steve slid his thigh over hers and said, “Good. Don’t much like to think of us having made you miserable.” His voice was soft, sleepy, gentle. “In this love’s hallow’d temple, this soft bed.”

She had to smile. “I made myself miserable, but certainly that’s never happened in this bed.”

“Oh that’s so much of a relief.”

She laughed quietly, eyes closed, content. The cool breeze was a blessing on her skin, and outside it was getting dark; the duvet was at the end of the bed somewhere but that didn’t matter much, Steve ran so hot. So did James. He was stroking her flank, Steve’s.

“Didn't really think I’d be lucky enough to keep you both,” he said. Then he chuckled. “I guess we all made ourselves miserable for a while there.”

“Probably,” Steve said.

Natasha opened her eyes slightly. The view was mostly of James’ chest and shoulder, and a very nice view it was too. “Hands up everyone who googled ‘being in love with two people at once’.”

Steve said, “Well it wasn’t you. You were gonna walk away and leave us to it.”

She squirmed. “Don’t!”

“What kept you here?” James asked suddenly.

“Nothing,” Natasha said, mildly exasperated with the pair of them. She was here and she loved them and knew herself loved in return; what more did they want? “I didn’t pine for months, you know, I went out and got wasted and picked up this very nice boy in SoHo who played the piano” – two pairs of hands tightened on her possessively, and she grinned – “and dumped him again when we got outside the club and I could see he wasn't as pretty as either of you.” Both of them were laughing. “No, I didn’t pick up anyone.” She couldn’t have borne anyone else’s hands on her. It made her sound like a romance heroine, but it was true. Trust was what the trouble was. And, brief periods of self-indulgent misery aside, it hadn't exactly taken long to - to get here. Steve had been impatient and James had been very sure - at least on the outside. “I did get wasted, though.” Natasha, when the hangover had worn off, had been angry: they didn't get to take this from her as well, didn't get to make her miserable even now. Whatever it took, she had decided, she would make it work. She would keep them both or kill herself trying.

Steve’s hand was resting heavy on her stomach; he rubbed his thumb over her skin lightly, brushing at her navel. Natasha sighed, happy to her bones. “You know what my very favourite thing is about you?” she asked him.

He smiled. “No.”

“You always expect people to be better than they are. Even me. It made me mad, and then it made me laugh, and then it made me love you.”

For a moment he was still. “And here I thought that was a childish and naïve character flaw.” His voice was a little shaky.

“Oh, love, you’ve got me to handle that part.”

He buried his face in her hair. “What part does Bucky handle?”

“The keeping-you-safe part, as best I can,” said James.

“And sane,” Natasha said.

“Same difference,” said Steve by her ear. _Even when I had nothing I had Bucky_. Yes.

James laughed ruefully. “That’s you two who keep me that way. Or make me want to stay that way, at least… we’re not very good at bein’ apart from each other, are we.”

“I happen to like it that way,” said Steve. James pushed himself up and leant over Natasha to kiss him.

“Been alone for long enough,” she said, and let herself clutch at James a little harder. He moved still closer, didn’t need to speak.

“Sweet, talkative, affectionate,” Steve teased.

“No carry-over,” Natasha said mock-sternly. “Kiss me, Captain, and then go to sleep.”

“Come, Madam, come, all rest my powers defy.” He kissed her, not remotely dutiful, and then she needed to kiss James as well, and then, tired, satiated, lulled by the sound of their breathing, she slept.

 

 

 


End file.
